Silent Hunter

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“A song written in two days sold for five grand. Doesn’t that mean you could make over a hundred thousand in a month? Jesus! Grace couldn’t make that much in several years. It’s faster than robbing a bank!”
At the wheel, Rust watched through the car window as Britney waved goodbye at the apartment entrance.
“Did Liam get you drunk on a bottle of whiskey? You must be a little tipsy. Songwriting isn’t like doing homework—there isn’t something new every day. It takes inspiration, you know? And finding the right buyer is another huge problem. If I can sell one song every few months, I’d be thanking my lucky stars.”
Dean had no intention of churning out hit songs in quick succession. At the very least, he wanted to let “Amazing Day” ferment a while, to see how songs of this style would be received in the future.
If it proved viable, he’d consider releasing similar tracks, but next time, he would really drive a hard bargain.
“That’s still more than most people make in a regular job,” Rust said with envy all over his face. He’d spent all his time studying for college, never once working a part-time job, living entirely off Grace’s support.
But his friend, so similar in age, temperament, and experience, had quietly transformed, earning money with ease that most people could only dream of.
Dean ignored his friend’s admiring gaze and, glancing through the window, spotted a BBQ joint flashing by on the street. “Pull over there. Robert gave me some ‘earnest money.’ I’m treating you to a feast today—eat as much as you want.”
Rust’s lips curled in a smile and he shook his head.
“BBQ? Don’t you remember, Monday is Memorial Day. The school’s hosting a barbecue party at Lake Mead at noon. Let’s skip it today.”
Dean came to himself. Unknowingly, May was drawing to a close, and he’d been in this world for nearly a month.
“Then let’s hit up that Sichuan restaurant on the Strip. Today, I’ll treat you to some real Chinese food!”
...
After a satisfying meal, Dean had Rust, whose mouth was burning from the spice, circle around the outskirts of town in the Ford, making note of the locations of several outdoor supply and private gun shops in Vegas.
Then it was back home, time for another round of combat and summoning practice.
...
The next day was Sunday. The sky was overcast, not a trace of sunlight.
Dean got up early, borrowed Rust’s Ford, drove home alone to get his driver’s license, and then headed to the private gun shop he’d scouted out the night before: Silent Hunter.
In America’s big cities, every few blocks there’s an outdoor supply store, a private gun shop, or even a large supermarket selling guns. But in Las Vegas, to maintain good public order, gun shops were set a fair distance from downtown.
After a quick circuit, he’d found the coolest-named shop: Silent Hunter.
From afar, the storefront, clad in dark marble, looked almost like the gaping maw of a roaring bear’s head mounted on the wall.
Inside, bright lights illuminated the solid wood-paneled walls, horizontally lined with tier upon tier of long-barreled guns: rifles, sniper rifles, shotguns, double-barreled hunting guns...
On shelves below, rows of clearly labeled boxes of ammo of all types were neatly arranged.
Dean’s gaze swept the shop.
In the center, glass display cases held an array of handguns and revolvers in various shapes and sizes.
Several wooden racks stood upright, holding long guns like rows of black corn stalks growing from the earth, each tagged with a price.
Though the guns on the racks weren’t brand new—likely used for display, maybe even second-hand—the store’s overall inventory, numbering in the hundreds, made it a veritable mini-armory.
“Hello, I’m Floyd, owner of Silent Hunter.”
A burly man, bearded and wearing a hat with a pistol at his waist, came over. His gaze lingered on Dean, a hint of regret in his eyes.
Eighteen years old, an Asian face—despite Dean’s above-average height, he looked even younger than most white boys his age.
“Sorry, but under Nevada law, we can’t sell to minors.”
Dean handed over his license.
The owner checked the photo and Dean’s face several times, nodded, and handed him a simple questionnaire, confirming his name, social ID, home address, any criminal record, reason for purchasing a firearm, and so on.
Dean, with a clean record, answered everything truthfully. The process took less than ten minutes.
Floyd glanced over the answers, tucked away the form, and smiled even more warmly.
“All set. Dean, do you have an idea how much you want to spend? I can recommend some good-value options.”
“I’d like to have a look first.”
Dean walked among the glass cases, eyes roaming.
Given the era, the famous Glock 17, Beretta 92F, and Desert Eagle he’d heard about hadn’t been produced yet.
He recognized only a few: the .38 revolver often seen in Hong Kong cop movies from the ‘70s and ‘80s, the Smith & Wesson .357 revolver, the AR-15 semi-auto rifle, the AK-47, Mosin-Nagant...
At each case, he picked up a gun, feeling its cold, solid weight stir his blood.
This was a gun.
Cold, unremarkable, and deadly.
He flexed his wrist, tested the weight, tried a two-handed grip, right-handed stance, weak-hand grip, squeezed the trigger, aimed.
He paid close attention to the feedback in his fingers.
Floyd watched him from a short distance, quietly observing.
After a while, Dean pulled from a case a distinctive revolver with a deep blue, noticeably longer barrel—Clint Eastwood’s favorite from “Dirty Harry.”
Floyd suddenly explained,
“The .44 Magnum semi-auto. If you can handle the massive recoil and shoot straight, one shot can take down a grown grizzly.”
“It’s great for hiking or hunting but be careful of the kick—after each shot, the muzzle jumps so high you have to force your wrist down to aim again.”
Dean realized, wasn’t this the legendary ‘hand cannon’?
“Trust me, kid, not everyone’s a movie star. You won’t be able to handle that gun.”
The owner advised sincerely, then took out from a nearby case a pistol with a slightly curved grip—one Dean recognized immediately.
The same model he’d taken from Dead Bob—
“The Colt M1911A1 semi-auto. Fires the powerful .45 caliber, deadly, reliable, easy to maintain, and at three hundred bucks, it’s one of Silent Hunter’s bestsellers.”
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“Buy this, and I’ll throw in a spare magazine.”
Dean turned the pistol over in his hand, thinking that if he bought one openly, taking Bob’s gun wouldn’t be any issue.
“I’d like to see a few more.”
The owner enthusiastically pitched him the Browning Hi-Power M1935, the slender, flat Ruger MK-1 5.6mm automatic, and a host of others whose names Dean couldn’t recall.
In the end, Dean chose the M1911A1.
It felt best in his hand, the anti-slip grip ideal for a beginner like him, and the triple safety—manual, grip, and half-cock—would help prevent accidental discharge.
He also bought ten boxes (500 rounds) of .45 automatic. The total came to just over four hundred dollars.
...
When it came to selecting a long gun, Dean’s interest waned. Like most men, he preferred pistols.
But having a backup was sensible.
The owner recommended a few:
The greatest weapon of the twentieth century, the legendary king of rifles, the semi-auto AK-47 with folding bayonet.
The popular AR-15, a small-caliber semi-auto rifle—cheap, lightweight, accurate, and easy to maintain.
The Winchester company’s iconic, powerful, reliable M1897 trench shotgun, famous worldwide—great for hunting or self-defense.
Then,
Dean checked out a few fully automatic models, but these were several times more expensive and required complex paperwork and a long waiting period.
...
After comparing, Dean settled on the civilian AR-15, which felt best and was reasonably priced, and bought ten boxes (500 rounds) of 5.56mm ammo.
The owner tried to sell him a slew of accessories, but as a beginner, Dean only took an extra magazine for the AR-15.
The total for two guns and all the ammo came to nearly a thousand dollars—not cheap.
With the $1,200 Robert had given him, plus his own three hundred-odd, Dean had about $530 left.
Worth noting, Dean had thought that after registering the purchase, the FBI would check his background and he’d have to wait before picking up the guns.
But the owner told him differently:
“You know how many people in America want to buy a gun? If the government or FBI had to check every buyer, they’d have to drop all their other work.”
Dean realized, in 1980, the internet age was still sixteen years away.
Without a vast, interconnected web, background checks for every buyer just weren’t feasible.
Now, anyone buying a non-automatic weapon just had to fill out a form per the 1968 Gun Control Act, and the shop owner would decide if they qualified.
The form asked questions like “Are you a fugitive?” “Do you have mental illness?”
Buyers weren’t idiots, and the owner had neither the desire nor the means to check if they were telling the truth.
So, in this era, anyone of age wanting a non-automatic gun for shady purposes had an easy time.
...
“Want to practice at the range?” The owner packed the guns and ammo into two black duffel bags. “Silent Hunter has a partner shooting range nearby—I can get you a discount.”
Dean considered, then shook his head. He had his own special methods.
“Did you drive here?” the owner asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’d suggest you lock the guns in the trunk and put the ammo on the backseat. Keeping them separate is safer for the trip home, then you can load and test them there.”
Dean nodded and asked frankly, “Do I need some sort of carry permit to have a weapon on me?”
“Nevada doesn’t have any of those annoying rules,” the owner said with pride. “Except for schools, hospitals, and a few other places, Nevada residents have the right to carry guns in most public spaces. But I wouldn’t recommend it—Vegas law enforcement is strict. If you’re not in a special line of work and get caught with a gun on you, the cops might just ‘civilly confiscate’ it, and you’ll have a hard time getting it back.”
But what if he hid the pistol in his clothes or a bag? Would the cops find it?
Dean picked up his bags, glanced at the clock.
Only nine o’clock—less than an hour since he’d come in.
That was easy.
He said goodbye to the owner and headed for the door.
At that moment, three men in black coats walked in, heading straight for him.
Dean’s gaze instinctively flicked across their faces.
Three white men in their forties, weathered, strong and stocky, arms and shoulders bulging with muscle—one with a limp in his left leg, but none looked easy to mess with.
Their expressions were unusual: the one on the right looked grave and alert, scanning the surroundings constantly; the one in the middle had a sharp, aggressive glare; the one on the left, blank-faced and hollow-eyed, as if he’d been through hell.
None of them paid any attention to Dean, an apparently harmless teenager. As they strode past him, Dean felt an inexplicable pressure.
His chest tightened, like a wildcat bristling before a predator, his body tensing, hand tightening around the bag’s zipper.
But then a voice behind him asked a question, and Dean, laughing at his own nerves, headed for the parking lot and drove off.
...
Dean drove out to the woods behind his suburban home, carrying his newly bought weapons.
He made sure the coast was clear.
He couldn’t wait—he took out the pistol, opened a box of .45 ACP, and loaded the magazine.
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Both hands on the pistol.
He disengaged the manual safety.
Racked the slide and cocked the hammer.
His grip pressed firmly against the grip safety.
Wrist controlling recoil.
He summoned his Shadow at a distance of ten meters, to use as a fixed target.
Aimed.
Bang!
A sharp report rang out in the woods.
A direct hit to the Shadow’s shoulder.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Dean fired off the rest of the magazine—seven rounds in just a few seconds.
Only two missed; most struck the Shadow’s chest and abdomen.
Dean lowered the gun, rubbed his wrist, and nodded.
At ten meters, even as a beginner, his accuracy wasn’t bad.
He continued training, pausing for fifteen seconds after each magazine to rest and reflect.
He adjusted his stance slightly each time.
...
Three magazines emptied at the ten-meter target.
Dean rested for half a minute, recalled the Shadow, and aimed at a tree twenty meters away as a new target. He fired three more magazines, but his accuracy plummeted to just half. At thirty meters, his hit rate dropped to less than a third.
By then, he’d burned through nine magazines—over sixty rounds.
You have practiced marksmanship with the Colt M1911A1... Proficiency +1, Shooting lv0 (11/100).
“Sixty-plus rounds for just one point of proficiency? At this rate, how many rounds will it take to level up?”
Dean shook his head and decided to take a break.
“Switch.”
He tossed the pistol into the air, where invisible force caught it, firing at a tree ten meters away.
Bang!
The bullet missed entirely.
“Keep going!”
Gunfire echoed in the woods.
The Shadow emptied two magazines, performing even worse than Dean—nine out of ten bullets missed, only managing to hit the target up close.
“Buddy, your shooting’s worse than mine.”
Dean rapped the Shadow on the back of the head. Its face, wreathed in black mist, looked blank and dumb.
“Sigh, just stick to close-quarters fighting.”
Dean hefted the AR-15.
Marksmanship skill activated.
He braced the stock against his shoulder, body relaxed, left hand gripping the fore-end, pressing the rifle into his body.
He switched from “safe” to “semi-auto.”
His eyes peered through the scope at a target twenty meters away.
Bang, bang, bang!
Splinters burst from the distant tree trunk.
Dean emptied a magazine—twenty rounds—hitting about half the shots, but the gun felt unwieldy.
He was already lightheaded.
After this round of shooting, his wrist and shoulder ached from the constant recoil.
He figured even with his Iron Man constitution, his daily limit was probably seven or eight boxes—about three hundred rounds, at most.
“Forget it—no need to overreach just yet. I’ll focus on mastering the pistol first. That’s enough for today.”
Dean packed up his guns and looked at his Shadow, now so faint it was nearly gone.
Last time, he’d only shot it twice and it showed no sign of damage.
But after tanking dozens of rounds today, it could barely hold its form and radiated a distinct sense of weakness.
A subtle intuition told Dean that after dissolving this time, the Shadow’s recovery would take at least twice as long—it would be ten hours before he could summon it again.
...
“So, the Shadow is vulnerable to fire, but also not immune to bullets—dozens of .45 ACP rounds can force it to retreat.”
Dean rubbed his shoulder, thinking with relief,
“Good thing I found out now. If I ever send the Ghost Armor to tank a submachine gun, one slip and it’d be riddled!”
...
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